Complete Paradox
by AshtonCat
Summary: Jurgen struggles to find his emotional balance in a post-Libria world. Set after the movie. Jurgen/OC


This story is a fan request. A hurt comfort scenario involving Jürgen in a post movie universe. Thanks for the assignment, Janise! I had a lot of fun thinking about what could have happened to him after the movie.

Also dedicated to three cats from the east and their lovely mistress. A little parting gift for you (for only two months)

Chapter 1

Had it always rained so often? They had given him a room of which one wall existed entirely out of a glass window, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, with a view to die for. It looked out directly into a landscape of woods, and mountains in the distance, shrouded in clouds of fog and mist. A panorama of wild, untamed nature. Apparently, they had decided to give him quarters with a rather green vista. After staring at concrete walls for years, this is what they had come up with to add some colour to his brain, his life, his world. And now that he was able to look outside, he had seen the rain pour down so many times, he started to think it rained more often now, after the fall of Libria, than before. Or perhaps he had simply forgotten about it.

There was plenty of time to register the course of the weather patterns. He was in bed often. Just laying, resting, sometimes reading, but not much. Sleeping was only accomplished with the aid of medication. It was one of the few things that hadn't changed. He had taken sleeping pills for years now, needing stronger one's ever so often. They had been hard to come by. But not anymore. There was an entire bottle of them on his nightstand, waiting for him to reach in and take out the necessary amount to get some real sleep. And there the nightmares would find him.

Sleep was nothing he truly missed because of the bad dreams. He wished he didn't need it at all, and he could stay away from the images of fire, death and torture. But regrettably, he was only human, and if he didn't sleep for longer than three days, he got sick, and his dreams started visiting him during the day as well. So he obediently took the three pills prescribed for him every night, and tossed and turned in his sheets until he exhausted himself so much that his brain simply gave out on him, putting him in a delirious state or half slumber. One that gave him vivid nightmares, but didn't offer any true rest in return. He woke up feeling just as tired and hollow as the night before.

It was okay to feel now. He was allowed, and able, to feel whatever he wanted to feel. If he wanted to redecorate his room by turning everything over, destroying it, he could. He'd use his rage, his anger, unleash it as he pleased. No one would ask any questions. No one ever did. If he wanted to sit on his bed and cry for every lost soul that had been entrusted to him, he could let his tears run free, soak his shirt, his sheets, the mattress if he worked hard enough. And again, no one would ask any questions. If he wanted to be scared of everything that moved, his own shadow even, he could hide under his bed, lay on his stomach on the grey carpeted floor, and shiver like a new-born kitten. His odd room had no curtains, so every thunderstorm felt like it took place inside the house, and he had never been a fan of such weather types. The concrete walls of the underground had shielded him from that for years, making it all the more difficult to grow accustomed to it now.

The idea of denying him curtains came from the man that evaluated his mental stability. A rather stern looking, older man named Pollard, with a buttoned up shirt. He talked to him as if he already resided at the mad house. But he also prescribed him his much needed sleeping medication, and so, his presence had been tolerated.

Since the Underground didn't really exist anymore, there was no reason for him to keep his position as its leader, but every person that had served under him still seemed to treat him with the same respect and regards. Consequently, no one really talked to him unless he asked a question or started a conversation himself. In the past, he had often requested silence around him, to not fill his already troubled head with needless information. Now, he welcomed every visitor to his quarters, and did his best to prolong every visit they paid him. But old habits die hard, and no one seemed to dare to treat him any differently. It got a little lonely sometimes. But he was able to suppress those feelings as well as any other.

He wasn't a prisoner. He could leave his room whenever he wished, but he never really knew how to behave when people stared at him like he originated from a different planet, a voice from the past. Sometimes he wondered if people avoided him because he reminded them of a time they wanted to forget about. He wished people could meet him halfway, help him a little in his attempts to live a normal life, to be a normal human being with human interaction that didn't involve running a militia styled group. But he could only stomach so many fruitless efforts at small talk before giving up and returning to his room.

John Preston visited him a few times a week. Which was nice of him. He'd bring his kids, or his abnormally sized dog, or both. Which was not very nice of him, but it seemed to amuse him beyond belief to see the former leader of the Underground struggle with two small children and an overly friendly animal. Jürgen was able to open his glass window wall, to gain access to a wooden deck with comfortable lounge chairs and a swimming pool which he never used. He didn't own anything to swim in, so he wondered who was behind the idea of appointing him a private pool without providing the proper attire. But Preston's kids liked it. And so did the dog.

Preston did his best at small talk. Asking Jürgen questions on his wellbeing, plans for the future, that sort of things. He himself was seeing a new woman, he told Jürgen all about her while a big guilty school boy sort of smile formed on his face. There was nothing Jürgen could say about the entire thing. He had little experience in that area, and the only women that had been around him were much younger, rebellious girls with the ambition to change the world, they needed protection above anything else. A safe place to stay, with stabile people around them to guide their young minds into more rational ideas, not hot headed men with a taste for anything free spirited. Jürgen, if he had been anything to them, had been a father figure. A calm leader, who didn't care about a pretty face, but all the more of what your mind could offer to the resistance.

As Preston fought himself free from every restriction on feeling, and made progress in those attempts, Jürgen felt safe in not feeling anything. If he did start feeling, he only felt loneliness, fear and an amount of rage that scared him. People got better. Picked up their lives. Build comfortable homes, and fell in love with eachother. And the man that had lead him to this victory, was left behind. Forgotten. An object of a world that was no more.

He wouldn't burden Preston with his troubles. He didn't tell him about his nightmares, his sleeping problems, the fact he hardly came out of his bedroom, didn't know how to talk to people, or get them to talk to him. If Preston ever did feel like something was wrong with his old friend, he hid it well, and sometimes offered a few comforting pats on the shoulder. Sometimes his young daughter hugged him before they left after an afternoon of playing in his pointless pool, her arms tightly around his waist, and her face buried in his stomach. Her hair dripping water on his floor. He never objected, just stood there with a forced smile. They were the only source of physical contact Jürgen had with another human being, and so it was more than welcomed.

"I'm sure Alice would like to meet you sometime." Preston had once said. "I've told her all about you. You know you're welcome to pay us a visit anytime you want. Have dinner with us. Get out of this.. depressing room." His eyes had wondered through Jürgen's joyless bedroom. Which consisted out of a huge bed, a grey carpet, a grey chair, a giant window he didn't want, and a small bathroom with just the bare necessities. "Who decorated this anyway?"

"I don't know." Jürgen had answered. "Whoever it was, they were under the impression I hate curtains and I love swimming. Both are misconceptions." His dry humour, or what everybody thought was his humour, made Preston chuckle.

"If someone gives you a private pool, you don't ask why." The younger man had answered with his hoarse voice. "Take a swim, Jürgen. It's good for you. The invitation stays."

"Thank you." Jürgen was always polite. And although he would never even consider visiting Preston and his family at home, he was grateful for the thought anyway. The mere fact he was invited, welcome at someone's house, made him feel a little better.

It was another cold, rainy evening when he sat on his bed, reading a meaningless novel to distract his weary mind, when a knock came to his door. He was expecting the doctor for his daily evaluation. It had become such a routine that the man visited him, he hardly cared anymore. Just a few questions and he would be gone again. Moving slowly, he got up from the bed and opened the door. But the person staring back at him wasn't the good doctor Pollard, but instead, a young woman whom he had never seen before.

"Evening." she said, smiling softly. "Doctor Pollard send me." She explained, holding up a clipboard with his own documents. She seemed nervous, unsure of what to say, or how to say it. "He asked me to assist him in his case concerning you." She continued. "sir." She added.

He blinked. Was he that much trouble to doctor Pollard that the poor man needed an assistant to deal with him? "Come in." he decided on saying, stepping away to let her through. She looked around the room and he could have sworn a shiver ran down her spine. "What is your name?" he asked, staring at her back. She turned to him quickly, her eyes wide in shock.

"I'm so sorry I didn't even introduce myself. I'm Susan. Susan Whitaker." She extended her hand in greeting, which he accepted with a small nod.

"I'm-" but she interrupted him.

"Jürgen, yes, I know. Former leader of the Resistance. Founder of the Underground. And the very man we owe so much to." She smiled lightly, to which he didn't react. "How are you doing, Jürgen? How are you holding up in this new world?" they were gentle questions not asked before, and to which he didn't have a straight answer. She had obviously detected his apprehension, and smiled sympathetically. "You don't have to answer those questions if you don't want to. I'm not here to force you to do anything you don't want to do. I just thought, well me and doctor Pollard, that perhaps a talk would help." He just gazed at her. "About anything really. Anything you may want to talk about."

He blinked. "Well, I would have to give that some thought." He replied, caught off guard. "I'm not sure of any topics that could be discussed that would be beneficial to my mental health."

She shook her head. "No, no. I'm not talking about your mental health. It's nothing that complicated." She studied his impassive expression for a moment, though he looked a little more confused now. "Do you think people think you're crazy?" she asked carefully, dreading the answer. "Do you think doctor Pollard send me to you because he thinks you're crazy? That he gave up on you? That you're my problem now?"

"I'm nobody's problem." He argued softly, looking almost offended. "Except my own."

"You're not a problem." She gently corrected him. "Not to yourself, not to anyone. You're just someone we need to handle with a little more care, and I don't think we've done a very admirable job at doing that so far, have we?" He said nothing. "You're not one to complain, but you should stand up for yourself more often." Growing weary from trying to understand where this woman was going with her story, he slowly sat down on the edge of his bed, his hands folded in his lap, gazing at her calmly. "To tell you the truth.." she started again. "Doctor Pollard simply asked me to do his usual check up on you for him. He's indisposed today, he couldn't come. But I'm not about to ask you these stupid questions." She tossed the clipboard next to him on the bed. "I'd insult you if I'd dare ask if you know what day it is, wouldn't I?"

"It's Thursday." He replied dryly. "November 14th. A holiday if I recall correctly. I suspect doctor Pollard is with his family today." She said nothing. "Is he?"

She just stood there, looking lost, gazing at him with a trembling lip. Then she moved, quickly, shoving the chair in front of him before plopping down in it. "I'm a paediatrician." She said. "I've been assigned to this establishment, which is not a mad house despite its reputation, mind you, to care for the children exposed to everything you've been through as well. You and so many. Including myself."

"Well, that is a very noble thing of you." He spoke, a little unsure. "I'm sure you've got your hands full."

"They can't sleep." She stated bluntly. "The children. That is one of the main symptoms. Insomnia. Paired with nightmares, day visions, amnesia.. self-molestation." She waited for a reaction, but he remained impassive, and slowly blinked at her. "Yes, I've got my hands full." She continued. "But I'm not going to leave you behind just because you're not a child."

He bit his bottom lip. "I don't do self-molestation, miss Whitaker. Nor do I suffer from amnesia. The rest.. in quantities I'm used to. I have myself under control."

"But that is not the point." She argued gently, sitting on the edge of her chair. "We're not sure how old you are, but not old enough to spend the rest of your life locked inside this dreary room, refusing to talk to anyone." He looked away from her prying gaze, outside, to the vista given to him. He had named all the hill tops by now. "You don't have to talk to me." She assured him kindly. "But you do need to start talking to someone. Anyone. Until you do, I will help you sleep. Really sleep."

"I have a prescription." He protested.

"I know what they put you on." She nodded. "It doesn't make you sleep, it just knocks you out. That is not the same. It's like downing a bottle of whiskey, and then go to bed. You wake up feeling as miserable as a dog, tired as one too." She reached into her coat and pulled out a small notebook. "I'm going to put you on something a little more gentle. See if it works." She scribbled something down.

"Something for children?" he asked, raising his eyebrows with an amused smile on his face.

"Exactly." She nodded, still writing down her findings. "The first dose has to be taken by injection. The rest of it are capsules. Taken each night, an hour before bed time. Does that agree with you?"

"Injection?" His voice had something wary in it now, and she looked up from her little notebook.

"In your arm." She explained, indicating the spot on herself, right below her shoulder. "Or your leg, if you should prefer that. It doesn't really matter. Anywhere the muscles are close to the surface of the skin." He didn't look comforted by her words, and she sighed softly. "It will take just a second. And after that, I promise you, you will feel perfectly drowsy. There will be no after effects in the morning. You will feel rested."

He nodded absentmindedly, and looked away from her kind gaze. "Very well then." He agreed after a moment of silence. "I'll be your subject of science if it makes you feel better, miss Whitaker. I don't seem to serve any other purpose anymore anyway." She then reached out, placing her warm hand on his knee, drawing his attention back to her face.

"you're not an experiment." She pressed on him. "You're someone I want to help. Let me help you."

He hesitated, but then requested what had been creeping into the back of his ever working mind. "Will you stay with me?" she looked confused. "After the injection. Until I'm asleep. I have a history of reacting strangely to new medication, I might need.. monitoring."

She had started rubbing his knee with her thumb, a comforting gesture. "I will stay with you. Of course I will." He nodded a little. "Don't be afraid." She assured him softly. "I've seen so many children react wonderfully to it. Once given the proper amount of sleep our brains can start healing themselves. It will be worth the little sting in the beginning, I assure you."

"You just woke up this morning and decided to offer me an injection into my arm that would put me to sleep?" He asked, curious about her motives. "There must have been some sort of thinking process prior to that decision. Someone who informed you, multiple times, about my wellbeing." She straightened in her chair again, listening to his carefully formulated question. "Someone who voiced concern about me, obviously. Triggering your own worry."

She almost gave him a bored look. "John Preston's children are under my treatment. I speak to them, I speak with him. All three of them mentioned you several times. I'm informed about pool parties, dogs.."

"I never once mentioned any of these symptoms to either Preston or his children." He argued.

She chuckled. "You forget it was once his job to sense these things about people. He knows you're suffering. Be proud of him he uses his talents for the good now. He's the voice of people who don't dare to talk about it. People like you."

He said nothing, and swallowed thickly. Of course he was proud of John. Happy for him too. But he didn't need to tell him that every time he visited, did he? Feeling tired, he gazed out of the window, the glass foggy, the peaks of the mountains shrouded in mist.

"They expect bad weather tonight." Her calm voice brought him back, and he turned his head to look at her. "I always sleep better when it rains." She continued. "I find the sound soothing at night. How about you?"

He shrugged a little. "I tend to worry when it rains." He started. "The Underground used to get flooded very easily. The sound of rain was always an announcement to a restless night of dragging matrasses and buckets around. I've spend more rainy nights knee deep in cold water than lying in bed listening to it."

She was quiet, her expression one of sympathy. "There were so many children there. Below the surface. I can't even imagine.." she whispered.

"They occupied rooms in a higher area. We always did our best to give the young ones every comfort and luxury we could offer." He told her, not wanting her to feel bad because of his story. "But they were frightened, of course. I was no expert in children, but I do recall nights where some of them demanded my presence to help them sleep. Somehow, my presence offered a source of comfort."

She smiled softly. "You were the leader." She elaborated for him. "They knew you were. That made you a safe haven."

A thought came to his mind. "Where are those children? After Libria's fall I never saw them anymore. Whatever happened to them? Are they under your care as well?"

She nodded, her smile never fading. "They ask about you a lot. Up until now, I never had an answer for them. I didn't even know where you were. Where they put you." The thought seemed to make her emotional, and she sniffed. "I always just tell them you're resting. You worked very hard to get them free, and now they are, and you need your rest." He gave no reply. "I admire John's children for not telling the others they get to spend time with you. You'd have a pool full of children if we allowed them all access." She chuckled. He smiled lightly in response.

"Would that help them?" he asked. "Allow them to see me? Or would that just.. make matters even more confusing?"

She shook her head. "Those are questions for later. When you've rested, when your mind had a chance to atleast start healing itself. For now.. All that matters is to get you the attention we've very cruelly denied you until today. And I don't know why they decided to put your name last, but it was the wrong thing to do." She got up from her chair. "I'm going to prepare the injection, if you're going to prepare for bed."

He gazed at her warily. "Right now? Can you not give it to me like this?" she was quiet, obviously confused by his apprehension. "How fast does it work? Do I just drop to the floor once its administered?"

She chuckled softly. "It does work pretty quickly." Her tone kind, she reached out to place her hand on his shoulder. "The last thing we want is you to drop to the floor and hurt yourself, Jürgen. You don't deserve that." He didn't dare meet her eyes, and took to staring at the floor instead, while concentrating on the soothing squeezes she gave to his sore shoulder. "Get yourself comfortable. And I'll be back in just a minute." With that, she left, and he was once again alone with his troubled thoughts.

He didn't feel much for taking off his uniform and change into a shirt to sleep in, not with the knowledge she'd be back in his room. But sleeping in the light blue one piece suit was something he had done way too often, when nights were restless, and he had no time to lay down. They had offered him a change of wardrobe. But he had declined, thinking it unnecessary. It did fine during the day time. It was comfortable to wear until you developed an itch on your knee or something. All he needed was a simple shirt he could wear in bed. When no one else was around. And they had gladly given him a stack of atleast 40 of the damn things. All varying in colour. Boy, had the world improved.

Moving slowly, he undressed himself and placed the uniform on a chair. The cold air in the room hit his bare skin, and he shivered in response. Preston was right. He should inform about the heating system in this place. He hadn't yet discovered how to get his room to a more agreeable temperature. But then again, he was used to the cold by now. He pulled the white shirt over his head before climbing into bed, still shivering under the grey covers. It might not be the best sign, but he felt a lot better lying down, like his body gave out a relieved sigh. The rain had started, it would go on all night, causing him to reflect on times much more troubled than now. But she had promised to lend her company for a while, and so, he wasn't going to be alone all the time.

He was concentrating on his getting his breathing to a more steady pace, when a soft knock came to his door. "Come in." He told her, trying to sit up a little, leaning on his elbows. She entered carrying a syringe and a steaming mug, and placed both items on his contemporary nightstand.

"I took the liberty of bringing you some tea." She said. "There will be time for a chat and a drink once I've given you the shot. Unless you don't want to, that is."

"Of course I do." He assured her. "Thank you for the tea." She was about as uncertain about the whole situation as he was, and he didn't want her to feel uncomfortable in his presence. He was out of his comfort zone enough for the both of them. She nodded, obviously relieved by his answer, and sat herself down on the side of his bed, still smoothing strands of hair behind her ear. "Are you not going to drink anything?" he asked.

She smiled. "I could only carry one cup while holding that syringe."

"We'll share." He proposed, returning her smile lightly. "Drinking all that by myself will only result in multiple night time visits to the bathroom, and it's much too cold for that." He attempted to joke, and it worked, she chuckled, lifting the dense mood.

"Alright, we'll share." She agreed, giving him a warm smile. "Are you ready?"

Kind or not, she was a doctor, and she was here on a mission, not to drink tea with him and keep him company, he reminded himself. Though, for now, he would have enjoyed just her presence, no injection required. But he wasn't going to burden her with that information, and so he nodded, and rolled up the sleeve of his right arm.

She disinfected his skin with a small cotton ball dipped in alcohol, and shot him quick glances every now and then, as if she was trying to evaluate what he was thinking. "This may hurt a little." She warned gently, tapping the air bubbles out of the syringe.

"Don't worry about hurting me." He explained calmly. "I'm very used to injections."

Somehow, this made her hesitate, and she sat up, gazing at him intently. "What do you mean you're used to them?" When he gave no reply, she reached over to his nightstand to grab his medical files. "They gave you two when you arrived here. Nothing worth mentioning. Just some precautions since you've lived in a rather unhygienic environment for a long period of time. Are you referring to those?"

He shook his head slowly. "No." He answered. "I will tell you some other time. Maybe. For now, I would really like to just try and sleep." She pursed her lip in apprehension. "Please, miss Whitaker, you said it yourself. I need to start talking, but not before I've sufficiently rested first."

She seemed like she had rather seen it otherwise, she wanted to know what he was talking about. But those details would come later. On his own terms. And certainly not dressed in a shirt and his shorts, lying in bed with a cup of chamomile tea. But she was an understanding person, and so she agreed. The sting of the injection was over in a split second, and she rubbed the now sore spot on his arm like she undoubtedly did with every single one of her much younger patients. Gently, she rolled down his sleeve for him, covering the tiny wound, leaving a tiny red dot on the white material of his shirt.

"There we go." She told him. "All done."

He nodded. "Thank you." The expression of gratitude was given by lack of a better alternative, but she smiled softly in response. A silence followed, and it seemed neither of them were sure what to say next. He shifted in bed, and slowly leaned back against the cushioned headboard, not feeling any change yet.

"How long before I'm supposed to.. fall asleep?" he asked carefully.

"20 minutes, give or take." She replied. "I've seen kids do it in 10 before though." She handed him the warm mug of tea, and helped him take a few careful sips. The hot liquid made its way down his throat and settled in his stomach radiating a pleasant heat. Sleep would come soon enough. But for now, her company was soothing.

R&R plz! As usual with requests, I might continue it.


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